


Coyote Teeth

by zuotian



Series: Coyote Teeth [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: A Study in Redneck Country, Angst, Fluff, Functional McCormick Family, M/M, Mild Gore, Tags Withheld Due to Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuotian/pseuds/zuotian
Summary: Cartman elects to go to Kenny's house for reasons unknown, needing his back broken in. The day just gets weirder from there.
Relationships: Eric Cartman/Kenny McCormick
Series: Coyote Teeth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572889
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	Coyote Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> another manic fic finished at exactly 2:27 AM. at this point i'm wondering if i'm bipolar. 
> 
> initially i wanted something short, and sweet, and cute, to recover from my last fic, but you know me! it's impossible to write anything less than 5k words. or wholesome, for that matter. that being said, this is my 50th fic. that seems like an important number and i'm glad it's this one.
> 
> this one's kinda squicky. not the gore--which is one whole sentence--but check the end note for trigger warnings, which i didn't tag because spoilers, if you're nervous. 
> 
> the whole fandom, myself included, is guilty of writing the mccormicks as generally abusive, etc, etc. obviously that's how it is in the show, but i wanted to throw them a bone and write 'em as if they were somewhat functional. i think there's a lot of potential there. i might come back to this 'verse i've made -- it was a lot of fun. and i'm pushing my artist!kenny headcanon again. 
> 
> one more thing -- i tried real hard to parse down my writing in this one. i'm talking bare bones, no meat. lemme know how it pays off. we stan the em dash in this household. libre office keeps screwing with my shit when i copy & paste it. fucking open source software -- you can't blame, 'em, though. it's free!

ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FANFICTION—EVEN THOSE BASED ON A REAL SHOW—ARE ENTIRELY GRATUITOUS. ALL CANONICAL DIALOGUE IS IMPERSONATED ... POORLY. THE FOLLOWING FANFICTION CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE AND DUE TO ITS CONTENT IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE.

Cartman’s voice clamored loud as an airhorn, directly into Kenny’s ear canal: “Hey, McCormick—”

“Aggh—!” Kenny twisted into his sleeves, the right side of his face already railroaded with pink imprints. “ _What_ the fuck do you want?”

“I’ll give ya five bucks to pop my spine, later,” Cartman propositioned. “My back needs cracked. I’m dying.”

“Shut the hell up, man. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

“But you’ll do it, though, right? I need those wicked elf feet. You can tap dance if you want to, for all I care. I’ll play the castanets.”

“What’s in it for me?”

Cartman leaned between their seats, whisper-yelling. “I already said—five bucks! You can afford a Big Mac that’ll last you a week.”

“You wouldn’t have back problems if you weren’t such a fatass, you know.”

“I’ve got scoliosis!”

Kenny flipped his hood up to muffle Cartman’s two hundred decibel defense. “No you don’t.”

“I do _too,_ ” Cartman insisted. “I had x-rays. It’s like a giant fish hook, I swear to God.” He yanked Kenny’s ears free, intolerant to anybody’s ignorance besides his own. “C’mon. Please?”

“Go see a chiropractor, if you’re so desperate _._ ”

“I’m not about to let some old guy all up in my grill. Doctors skeeve me out—” Cold sausage fingers scrabbled under Kenny’s long hair and violated the collar of his t-shirt. “—you _know_ that.”

Kenny’s shoulders snapped at the intrusion. “Jesus Christ!” He shot up and ducked out from under Cartman’s arm, which thudded heavy onto the table. “Fine,” he relented. “But I want _ten_ bucks.”

“Deal. Let’s do it at your house, after school.”

“Why the hell my place?”

They’d camped out in the library for a nap guised as studying, an already flimsy excuse Cartman now utilized to avoid further conversation. “Why the hell not?” he asked, bent over his forgotten biology textbook.

“According to you, I live in a crack den.”

“Please, Kenny. Let me focus on my schoolwork.”

“But—”

“Shh! We’re in the goddamn library. Don’t speak to me.”

Kenny was thus forced to postpone his investigation into Cartman’s M.O. until later that afternoon, the only problem being Cartman didn’t leave any room edgewise in their one-sided conversation.

“Fucking _biology,”_ he huffed, the school’s parking lot nothing but an asphalt receptacle for his echoed rage. “The midichlorian is the powerhouse of the cell, I get it!”

No wonder he failed the test. “That’s Star Wars, dude,” Kenny muttered. “It’s called the mitochondria.”

“Oh, _okay._ I didn’t know I was in the presence of Charles Darwin.”

“I’m just saying. It’s not like _I_ did much better—I got a C.”

“Well, I got a big fat F!”

Cartman smashed his key fob, unceasingly. A rinky-dink sedan mirrored his discontent all the way across the lot.

“Somebody’s gonna think there’s a car alarm going off,” Kenny said.

Cartman cut it out. The world lapsed into silence until they reached the car, when he shattered stratosphere with a metallic shriek opening his door. Kenny sat down opposite, ears ringing—at this point the passenger seat had a depression conformed to his own ass-print—and flung his backpack between his sneakers with practiced ease.

It wasn’t an honor to be Cartman’s best friend, but definitely a privilege. For example, he was the only person alive who could openly observe the way Cartman keeled over the steering wheel, and comment, without fear of immediate detonation, “You look terrible.”

“I am in _pain_ , Kenny!”

“Alright—I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Cartman delivered a nasty glare. “Of course you didn’t. Nobody ever takes me seriously. I’ve got enough health complications I could write a medical textbook, if I was so inclined.”

An image of him dressed in a bloody surgeon’s gown entered Kenny’s brain. He cupped his fists over his mouth to muffle his voice—“Paging Dr. Cartman. Enema, stat. In need of assistance. There’s shit all over the place.”

“Quit talking,” Cartman ordered. He smirked, though, and even gave Kenny control of the radio so long as it was barely audible.

The guy got off on hearing his own voice, yet there was a considerable lack of yammer. Radio commercials filled the void well enough, but Kenny could only watch South Park slough past his peripheral vision for so long before his interest piqued pert as an Eskimo mother’s breast.

“What’s got you all peachy?” He had to ask.

“Kenny!” Cartman bit into his name like it was a well-done steak. “I thought I said no talking?”

“Right,” he remembered. “It’s just, well—”

“I’ll shove you out the car if you don’t stop acting cute.”

Of all the ways to die, getting eaten up by Cartman’s tires fell at a moderate six—not terrible, but not worth the risk, either. Kenny contorted his legs onto the dashboard and spent the rest of the ride with his mouth zipped.

“Here we are: the McCormick household,” Cartman announced upon arrival. It actually wasn’t very much of a house, and it didn’t hold a lot, either. “Come and get your crystal meth before it’s gone, folks.”

Kenny popped his door open, reorganized his shinbones, and hopped into the gravel. “Man, nobody in my house is on meth.”

“To _your_ knowledge.” Cartman dropped down at a much slower pace, then disappeared. Kenny rounded the car and found him on his knees checking the undercarriage. “I hate those damn train tracks,” he said. “One of these days you’re gonna owe me a muffler!”

“We have about fifty of ‘em in the yard,” Kenny offered.

“I mean one that _isn’t_ corroded to rust.”

“Oh, then, yeah. Can’t help you there.”

“Y’know—” Cartman crawled to his feet, holding his spleen together, “You could probably sell all those stupid eyesores for parts.”

He meant the trucks Stuart had collected over the years and promised to fix, but inevitably left to rot. “You sound like a firecracker, dude,” Kenny said, forgoing that spectacular financial advice.

“Finally, you understand the necessity.”

“Not really. But hey, listen. My place is kind of, like, a mess?”

“Obviously that goes without saying.”

Kenny’s cheeks flushed. “I just wanted to give you a heads up, is all—”

Cartman lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Would I be here if I gave a shit?”

“ _I_ don’t know.”

“Wrong! The correct answer was the most adamant _fuck no_ of all time.”

Kenny spun towards the house, otherwise they’d be arguing till sundown. “Let’s go, dude.”

Cartman waddled after, too preoccupied clenching his skeleton together he didn’t notice Kenny had stilled, and belatedly stuck his arm out to catch the screen door before it slapped his face on the return. “What’s the hold up—”

“Cartman’s here,” Kenny proclaimed.

His mother sat slumped in their saggy recliner still wearing her Benny’s apron, an ashtray full of Virginia Slims perched at her elbow. She glanced away from the _n-yooming_ televi sion— one of th ose old schoo l boxes big as a dishwasher _—_ and gave them an unimpressed appraisal. “Hello, boys.”

Cartman proffered an awkward wave from behind Kenny’s shoulder. “Howdy.”

Her gaze swiveled back to the racetrack on screen. “How was school?”

“It was alright,” Kenny said. “Where’s Dad?”

“Out back with Kevin; Karen’s in her room.”

“What’re they up to?”

“Duck calls.”

“I hear that’s a very lucrative skill,” Cartman supplemented.

“They’re _making_ duck calls, jackass,” Kenny clarified. “They whittle ‘em outta wood.”

“Well slap my ass and say yeehaw—I didn’t mean to _offend_ your family’s craft.”

Carol raised her voice, accustomed to speaking over bickering: “Is your friend staying for dinner, Kenny?”

Kenny clucked his tongue. “You feel like dinner, bro?”

Cartman twisted his lips together, deceased at being unable to make some shitty remark in full view of the McCormick matriarch. “Perhaps,” he eked out.

“Kevin bagged some birds,” she said, “so we’ve got plenty.”

“Birds?”

She stared at him through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “Fowl, son. Ducks.”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were all a bunch of—survivalists.”

“We like to hunt. No use living on this earth lest you accept what the good Lord gives ya.”

“Um, yes, of course.”

She snorted. “Kenny—you need to let him shoot your gun.”

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea,” Kenny said. He finally stepped inside before Cartman latched onto the concept, shrugging his backpack to the floor where it’d stay, homework untouched, until Monday.

They completed three strides across the smoky living room before Carol apprehended them with her voice. “Boys.”

“Yeah?” Kenny asked.

“Don’t be getting up to no good, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cartman bolstered Kenny’s reply with a nod, but the second they passed the hallway threshold he shoulder-checked Kenny into the wall.

Kenny sprung back and walloped his jiggling tit. “What’s that for?!”

“I dunno.” Cartman threw him into the wall again. They were pretty evenly matched if Kenny worked up enough frenetic energy, but in general Cartman had the advantage, being borderline-obese and all. “I need a fucking inhaler. How the hell do you not have asthma?”

“Man, I have no idea why you’re even here.”

“For my chiropractic appointment, we’ve been through this.”

“Well—” Kenny knocked his dumpy bedroom open. “Welcome to my office.”

“It’s shit,” Cartman judged.

Kenny flopped onto his bed—no bedspring, no headboard, two mattress stacked on top of each other—and kicked his untied sneakers off. “C’mere.”

Cartman rolled his eyes, compiling nonetheless. “I nearly regret doing business with you—hey! What!”

Kenny had truncated his ocular sweep of the room by flinging his legs into the air. “Get my socks.”

“No way in hell!”

“You want me to fix your back? C’mon. I gotta have free range of my toes.”

“You’re on some freaky shit, McCormick.” Cartman thrust hand out. “Lemme at ‘em.”

Kenny leaned into the naked window at his back, his legs eleven miles long between them, and dropped his heels into Cartman’s wide palm. “Go on.”

“For the love of—” Cartman ripped his crew socks off so fast a couple toenails nearly went with them. “There! Are you happy, Tarantino?”

Kenny planted his bare feet into the carpet. “Aren’t those pizza rolls?”

“No, shit for brains.” Cartman collapsed beside him; the top mattress screamed in agony, unused to such excessive weight. “That’s _Tostino’s_. Taratino’s a movie director. I forget sometimes how uncultured you are.”

“What kinda movies? Are they good ones? Would I like ‘em?”

“Some, maybe. There’s lotsa blood and stuff.”

“Any sexy chicks?”

“Sure. But it’s not about either of that. It’s all a metaphor.”

“A metaphor for what?”

“Lots of things.”

Kenny sat up and draped himself across Cartman’s shoulder. “Can’t there just be blood and hot girls? Why’s it gotta mean something?”

“You’re too unintelligent to comprehend it. You just have to watch the movies. I can’t _tell_ you what they are—you have to experience it. I got some on DVD. Do you happen to have a DVD player, by chance?”

“Yes! I’m poor, not Amish.”

“Okay. We’ll have a movie night, soon. Just don’t be jacking off to Juliette Lewis when I’m asleep four feet away. Now, would you mind it if you stopped molesting me?”

Kenny’s E.T. fingers retracted from Cartman’s gut. “Oh, so if it’s my feet, it’s not molestation?”

“It’s molestation no matter what you do. You give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“How about cooties?” Kenny hacked a wad of spit in the back of his throat, readied to deploy.

“Oh, you fucking slut!” Cartman wrestled him into the bed, all two hundred plus pounds versus his measly one-ten. “Don’t even _think_ about it!”

Kenny slurped; there was no point, now. Even if he tried, gravity would send it back into his eye. Despite the surrender, Cartman didn’t get off him, and he didn’t move.

“You’re growing a unibrow,” he informed.

Cartman’s cheeks burned red. “No I’m not! I mean— _am_ I?”

“Yeah, lemme—”

Kenny wiggled his knees up into the space between them, forcing Cartman to lean back, then encouraged him to lay flat and fingered the sparse hairs growing above the bridge of his nose.

He plucked one and held it up. “See? Girls like big eyebrows, though. It’s popular, right now.”

“Oh, well. Alright.”

“Frida Kahlo had a unibrow.”

“Who’s that?”

“She’s a painter. I’m not uncultured, dude. She painted herself with a unibrow and mustache all the time.”

Cartman scoffed. “I thought you liked _sexy_ girls.”

“Mustaches can be sexy. Unibrows, too. That was Frida’s whole point. She’s probably a lot smarter than Tarantino.”

“Maybe. She sounds like she knew what the hell she was painting for.”

Kenny braced his hands on Cartman’s chest and disrupted the amnesty by spitting in his face.

“Ergh—!”

Cartman whipped his elbow at Kenny’s sternum. Kenny flounced backward, nearly busted his skull on the wall.

“I _told_ you not to try it,” Cartman said, as liability coverage.

The room didn’t stop spinning until Kenny pushed his hair out of his face, and he was able to anchor his gaze on Cartman. “Do you want a massage, or _what_?”

“Promise you won’t spit on me?”

“You know I can’t promise nothing.”

“Good Lord.” Cartman stood up off the bed. “If you _assault_ me again, you aren’t getting your ten bucks.”

Fucking with him was worth a million, so Kenny wasn’t too concerned. “Okay.”

Cartman’s eyes narrowed to critical slits. His ineffectual suspicion butted into Kenny’s cheeky grin, and he was forced to drop it. “Whatever, dude.”

He husked his jacket. His blubbery torso spilled out unhindered, stretching the seams of his t-shirt. Biggie Smalls’ crown crinkled by pendulous man titties wasn’t too bad a sight, if Kenny was being honest.

“Quit staring,” Cartman snipped. “I’m not some chicken wing like you are, okay?”

“Nah. You’re a whole dinner ham.”

“Listen, if you’re going to sit there and _body_ shame me—”

“That’s the last thing I’m trying to accomplish.” Kenny sluiced to his feet before Cartman decrypted his words, and poked him in the belly. “C’mon, bro. It’s just _me_.”

Cartman’s hesitancy deflated at such a compelling argument. He turned around, pulled his t-shirt over his head. His back humpty-dumptied in waves, culminated over the hem of his jeans, a fresh muffin top right out the oven.

“Uh—”

“Lay down.”

He struggled for about fifteen minutes to drop into a kneel, pancake flab oozing into the scratchy carpet once he finally managed to situate himself horizontal.

“Don’t get too excited.” Kenny stepped around him, towards the stereo system on top of his dresser. “I need music, if I’m gonna dance.”

“Ugh. Just don’t play any of your thrasher shit. My head’ll explode, I’m serious.”

“I’ll keep it light.”

“How retro,” Cartman said, watching Kenny flick through his CD album. “That’s the nice thing about poor people. You’re always ten years behind materially, so it’s nostalgic for everybody else.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’ve inspired me to unsubscribe from Spotify. Break free from the yoke of the cloud. It’s awful, in the future. You’ll hate it. Nothing’s real. Let’s play your PS2, later. San Andreas.”

Marilyn Manson’s vocals warbled in the air. Kenny turned the dial, constructing a safety blanket of sound.

Cartman snickered. “Faggot!”

Kenny smashed his foot into his forehead. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, go slit your wrists!”

“Let’s just do this already so you’ll shut the hell up.” Kenny slid out of his parka for mobility, tossed it onto his bed, then resumed his starting position. He tucked his hair behind his ears so it wouldn’t spill when he looked down. “Where’s it bad?”

“All over,” Cartman said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” Kenny dedicated a second to marvel at the expanse of soft body open to perusal. “I’m just gonna—” He put his foot on the small of Cartman’s doughy back, then, using the dresser as leverage, raised his other foot and dropped his full weight.

“Awww,” Cartman groaned.

“Don’t jizz your pants, man.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Fuck, dude.” Kenny tapped his heels, testing the give. “You shoulda asked weeks ago, if it was this tight.”

Cartman didn’t reply, his vocal capabilities reduced to affirmative or negatory grunts from here on out—a weapon relinquished.

They’d been doing this for neither of them know how long. It was one of those things that became tradition upon conception. Kenny’s switchblade carcass stabbed Cartman’s in all the right places. Initiation was the only problem; Cartman didn’t like exposing himself, even though they were the same amount of ugly.

Kenny bared his own xylophone ribcage in solidarity. Cartman expelled a gasp, catching all his heft as he undressed.

“Turn back around,” Kenny said when he craned a curious glance through his bangs. “Or else you’ll crick your neck, too.”

The speakers kicked into a bass line that rattled the walls. Kenny unlatched his arms from their sockets and started sliding to the beat. Cartman’s back popped like a microwave. His breath hitched and released; he flipped his palms downward and gripped the carpet, prostrated flat to the underworld.

The track changed. _Would you kill, kill, kill for me? I love you enough to ask you again._

Kenny slipped his big toe between Cartman’s shoulder blades, his opposite foot braced against Cartman’s ass clad in bargain jeans. “How’s that?”

“Hhhg,” Cartman said.

“I could paint ya. Your back’s big enough to be canvas. I’ll paint a huge schlong.” He sketched a red line all the way to Cartman’s asscrack with his toenail, wobbling en pointe. “Big hairy balls.”

Cartman wiggled his butt, the impatient bastard.

Kenny stepped down into a straddle. “Well, I think I got all the big knots. Now, for the detail work—” He snapped his legs in half, landing rough in the middle of Cartman’s spine.

Cartman’s head whipped up upon impact. “Shit!”

“Sorry.”

“Y’can’t be a little _gentler_?”

“You know you like it,” Kenny smirked. He smoothed his palms up Cartman’s neck. “Relax, dude. I’ll chill.”

“Like fuck you will,” Cartman muttered. His forehead thudded back to the floor. “Fucking asshole. You’re a sadist, is what you are. One of these days you’re gonna shank me, probably.”

“I wouldn’t. I’d be bored as shit without you. Anyway, you’re my second source of income. I’m banking on that ten bucks.” Kenny scratched his fingernails into Cartman’s thick brown hair, a perpetual fixation. It was just so damn soft. Like petting a Maine Coon. “Gotta put in my money’s worth.”

Cartman’s head drooped some more. “M’gonna pass out, if you keep that up.”

“Good. You probbaly need it. When’d you last get a full night of sleep?”

“I dunno. Eighteen years ago. When I was in the womb.”

“Okay.”

“They say you hallucinate, if you stay up long enough.” Now that his body wasn’t a bucket of nails anymore, Cartman reverted back to his old philosophical self. “I’m gonna keep myself awake for a whole week and see what happens.”

“Or you could drop acid,” Kenny suggested.

“Why would I take drugs, when I can go to the root? It’s about rewriting the brain. Neurological elasticity.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m gonna stay up for a month straight. Enter the fourth dimension.”

“That sounds terrible. You’d die.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d meditate every now and again. Some monks, they get their brain waves low enough, it’s better than sleep.”

Kenny abandoned Cartman’s mussed hair, moving downward to rub the heels of his palms into his upper vertebrae. “If you reach nirvana, I’ll eat my own dick.”

“That’s the thing. If I got enlightened, I could just astral project myself into your head and make you _think_ you ate your own dick.”

“How’s that work? Wouldn’t _you_ have to pretend to eat my dick, so it’d transfer to me?”

“If this is your way of asking for a blowjob, you’re awful at it.”

Kenny huffed a laugh. “I got plenty of people wanting to suck my cock.”

“Hey.” Cartman propped himself on his forearms and twisted a look over his shoulder. “The hell does that mean? You got some trailer park bitches I don’t know about?”

“Maybe. Jealous?”

“I just don’t want you getting stuck with crabs. Or worse, a child.”

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“Perhaps you are,” Cartman said. “There’s still chicks wanting to go down on you. I heard it myself.”

Kenny paused his ministrations. “From _who_?”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Kenny admitted. “I don’t want any girls. Fucking—complicated.”

Cartman’s jaw pudged with a toothy grin. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m just gonna get a prostitute. I’ll use that ten bucks you’ll give me.”

“Where you gonna find a whore that cheap?”

“I’ll just call up your mother,” Kenny said. He expected another elbow to the chest, at least. Maybe a bloody nose.

Cartman didn’t retaliate at all, though. The thing most people didn’t understand about him was that his unbridled rage came from a long history of being misunderstood. The stupider his audience, the louder he got. But when he was with somebody actually intelligent—that person being Kenny—there wasn’t a need for all the theatrics.

He turned his whole body around. Kenny gripped his shoulders to stay upright, ended up sitting on his stomach, face-to-face with his dark countenance.

“Don’t talk about my mother,” he said, eyes sharpened to angry pinpoints. “Don’t mention her. Don’t even think about her in my presence. It’ll poison my brain, telepathically.”

Kenny bent towards the beast’s maw. “Did something happen?”

“ _Kenny_ —”

“Tell me, dude.” Kenny tangled his fingers into Cartman’s hair again, and Cartman’s pupils dilated back to standard irritation.

“She’s got this boyfriend,” he sighed. “He’s been at our house all week.”

“Some new guy?”

“No—they were together when I was a kid. Name’s Ted. I hate him.”

“Why?”

“Long fucking story. I don’t have the motivation to go into it right now.”

Better not to push him. “Well, okay. I’ll listen, whenever you want.”

“You’re the only person I’d deign to inform.”

Silence fell; the CD had run its course. Kenny stood up, head buzzing in the quiet, and tossed Cartman his t-shirt.

“Staying for dinner?”

“I guess.” Cartman rose to his feet in one fluid motion, gooey body now hidden from view. “Might as well spend the night while I’m at it.”

“I mean—if you want?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Will your parents mind?”

“Fuck no.”

“Alright, then.”

Kenny’s window rattled with a frigid breeze that leaked into the thin walls. He opened his dresser and put a hoodie on, then shoved his sock-less feet into his tennis shoes. “Let’s go outside.”

Cartman’s forehead crinkled. “ _Outside?_ ”

“We’ll play video games later. You need fresh air, dude.”

“Is this how you spend your time?” Cartman asked, once they clambered out the back door. He made a big deal of zipping his jacket and cinching his hood against the cold. “Loitering?”

Kenny took point through the junk/backyard. “Among other things.”

“What’s with all the trash?”

“It’s not trash. It’s a collection. There’s a dump down the tracks.”

“I bet you were an opossum in a past life,” Cartman said. “You’ve got the inclination.” He kicked an amputated mannequin. “What’re you doing with this?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Kenny picked her up one-handed and cupped the smooth indent between her thighs. “I’m gonna cut a hole and fuck her.”

“Oh, Jesus. I didn’t need that mental image.”

Kenny set her down, with the gentleness she deserved. “Actually I’m thinking about spraypainting her.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I don’t know what, yet. Something super cool. Here—” Kenny walked towards a handbuilt lean-to, ducked underneath the tarpaulin curtain pinned to its wooden supports; the wind quieted to crinkly whispers. “This is my _studio_.”

Cartman stopped short at his back. “Uhhh—what the fuck!”

Kenny glanced at the pool of blood leaking around the clapboard wall. “Oh, that’s just the ducks.” He lifted the tarp and peeked around the corner, where two gutted birds hung from ropes nailed into the wall. “See?”

“Holy shit. You’re all Appalachian. I’m gonna call the networks and get you on Duck Dynasty.”

“My parents were already on national television once.” The curtain rustled out of Kenny’s hand. “I built this place last summer. It’s pretty nice.”

He’d covered the grass with an old drop cloth weighted with buckets of rotten house paint. An easel sat against the wall, bordered by errant swipes of paint like an execution block. He didn’t use canvases—they wouldn’t survive the elements—so he had stacks of tin sheets and old bookshelves pilfered from the dump for free.

“I think our definitions of what’s nice are incredibly at odds,” Cartman said. He sat down in an old recliner Kenny stole from the house after its hand crank stopped cranking. “Don’tcha wanna be in some brick loft or something?”

“No way.” Kenny perched on a paint can at his side. “I like it out here. Art’s subjective, dude.”

“Drumming up any masterpieces?”

“Not really. I’ve been uninspired.” Kenny slapped his knees, struck with an idea. “Hey! I’ll paint you—for real.”

“How about hell no.” Cartman folded his legs onto the recliner’s sunken armrest, so that his head landed nearby Kenny’s shoulder. “I don’t want you to Frida Kahlo me. Bringing attention to my _unibrow_.”

“I’d paint you how I see you,” Kenny assured. “It’s not bad—just the truth.” He rummaged for a self portrait on chipped masonite, passed it to Cartman after bending out the warp. “See?”

Cartman held the board over his head. “It’s good. I mean, _you_ don’t look good, but.”

“That’s the point. Check out the pimple on my chin.”

“Very detailed. Is your hair in _braids_?”

“I go Post Malone when I paint. To keep it out of my face.”

“Get a damn haircut.”

Kenny raked his hair over his shoulder. “I like it.”

Cartman set the painting down. “Well, it adds to your aesthetic.”

A duck call heralded across the wind.

“Kevin,” Kenny supplied.

Lo and behold, his brother passed under the tarp a second later.

“Thought I heard somebody out here,” he said. He looked a lot like Kenny, but different—frame stretched, sandy hair darkened with grit and cropped to his ears. A brand new duck call bounced on his camo hunting jacket, hanging from a piece of twine around his neck.

“Hey,” Kenny greeted.

“Hey,” Kevin returned. His gaze landed on Cartman. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Yup,” Cartman said. “I’m here to taste that lynched bird.”

“Does Mom know?”

“Yeah,” Kenny said. “Where’s Dad?”

“He went to get beers. We’re gonna have a bonfire, later.”

“What a wholesome family jamboree,” Cartman said.

Kevin chuffed. “You’re funny, man.” He leaned against the wall, stuffed his hands into his pockets. “So, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” Kenny said. “We’re just—hanging out.”

“Heard there was another drop-off at the yard. Might wanna go scope it out before all the hobos get the good shit.”

Kenny flicked Cartman’s ear. “You down?”

Cartman rolled off the recliner. “Guess I have no choice.”

“It’ll be fun,” Kevin told him.

“Do either of you have your tetanus shots?”

“We don’t even got flu shots, man.”

“We’re anti-vax on economic grounds,” Kenny said.

His hand grazed Cartman’s knuckles when he stood. Kevin pulled the tarp open, and they trundled out in a line.

A girlish form awaited them at the back door. Karen raced down the steps and halted in front of the lean-to, a pink windbreaker sliding off her bony shoulders. “What’re you guys doing?” she panted—thin brows slanted over pretty eyes; the McCormick genes distilled into something pure and good, for once.

“Nothing,” Kevin snapped.

“You’re going to the dump, right? I wanna come with you!”

“No. Go back inside.”

“Please? You never let me do anything fun!”

“It’s not fun,” Kevin said, despite his previous remark. “It’s _dangerous_. There’s freaks out there.”

“I wanna see some freaks.” Karen located Cartman huddled behind Kenny. “Why’s _he_ get to go?”

“Because he’s a grown man. You’re a little girl.”

“I’m _fourteen_.”

“Exactly,” Kenny said. “Listen—I’ll bring you something back, if I find anything.”

Karen stomped her galoshes. “This is such crap! I’m telling Mom.”

“Go ahead,” Kevin dismissed. “She’ll say the same thing.”

“You’re all a bunch of assholes!”

Karen pivoted, brown hair swishing in a furious curl, and ran back inside the house. The window blinds parted to reveal her glare.

“She’s got spunk,” Cartman commented.

“She’s a fucking idiot,” Kevin huffed.

Kenny frowned. “No she ain’t.”

“What else is she supposed to do?” Cartman asked. “She wants to live up to the redneck family legacy.”

“That’s the problem,” Kevin said. “Let’s get outta here, before she follows us.”

The backyard didn’t have a fence, but simply sprawled in a gradient towards the trees. Kevin and Kenny stepped into the underbrush, forced to contort their giraffe bodies beneath overhanging branches whereas Cartman glided past stout and short behind them.

“So where is this place?” he asked.

“’Bout a mile down the way,” Kevin said.

He whirled to Kenny, betrayed. “A whole fucking mile?!”

“It’ll be good for you, dude,” Kenny said.

“You’re welcome to go back and play tea party with our sister,” Kevin offered.

Cartman spat at the ground. “Man, this sucks. You’re all weird as shit.”

“Why’re you here, then?” Kevin asked. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his breastpocket and lit one up, tacking onto the exhale, “I don’t remember you being around since, like, y’all were eight years old.”

“I’ve got complications at home,” Cartman explained. “Trust me—I wouldn’t be doing this unless I literally had nowhere else to go.”

Kenny punched Kevin’s shoulder before he asked for more details. “Give me a smoke, bro.”

“Fine.” Kevin passed another cigarette, then tucked the pack into his jacket. “You owe me five dollars.”

“Cartman’s got me,” Kenny said. “Right, dude?”

“Uh—well—”

He clicked the lighter off. “Whaddaya mean, _uh_? You said you’d give me _ten_!”

“I said I’d give you enough to buy a Big Mac,” Cartman protested. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “It’s a meal voucher. They screwed up my order a couple days ago.”

“What the fuck?!”

Kevin snatched the coupon out of his hand. “I’ll take it.”

Kenny blew smoke into Cartman’s face. “Screw you.”

“Screw me? Screw yourself!”

“Gentlemen,” Kevin barked. “We don’t want to wake up all the crack heads.”

“Crack heads?!” Pine needles crunched underfoot as Cartman sidestepped behind Kenny. “There’s crack heads?”

“Don’t worry,” Kenny smirked. “I’ll protect you.”

“They sleep out here, sometimes,” Kevin said. “Ever since all that SoDoSoPa crap.”

Cartman clenched Kenny’s downturned hood. “Fucking liberal gentrification.”

Kevin frowned. “What?”

“Don’t ask,” Kenny warned. “It’s an earful.”

Cartman grabbed a lock of his hair, gave it a tug. “It’s sound economics!”

“Ouch! Kevin!”

Kevin narrowed his eyes. “Quit fighting, kids.”

Kenny and Cartman separated with simultaneous snarls.

“Dick,” Cartman said.

“Pussy,” Kenny shot back.

“That’s enough!” Kevin shouldered between them, gestured at Cartman with his cigarette. “You—up here with me. Kenny, you take the rear.” He waved his hands when they didn’t move. “Let’s go! Squad up, cum cadets!”

They got into formation just in time to encounter the train tracks. Kenny slunk back a couple paces, wallowing on his cigarette.

The perpendicular sunset lowered and them all into silhouettes.

“So, what’s that you said earlier?” Kevin asked. “About the liberals.”

Cartman’s big head eclipsed Kevin’s wiry neck. “Oh, Christ. Your whole family’s victim to a system you don’t even _know_...”

Kenny watched them discuss the economy with bemusement. It sent an odd satisfaction down his spine—and wary suspicion. Cartman probably had a crush on Kevin without even knowing it; but Kenny had spent his entire life training to become Cartman’s keeper, and refused to be withheld the payoff.

“—so, all these Democrats are whoring themselves out to the educated elite,” Cartman concluded, “and meanwhile the Republicans are brainwashing poor bastards like yourself. Go independent, I say. The establishment’s fucked either way you look at it. It’ll take total anarchy to fix anything.”

Kevin flicked his finished cigarette at the train tracks. “That’s heavy, man.”

“Are you guys done?” Kenny called.

Cartman’s beguiling smile was barely visible. “Yes, Kenny, the adults are finished speaking. You may join us now.”

Kenny tossed his cigarette aside—a meteor in the growing dusk—and jogged ahead. “I’ve only heard the same spiel a thousand times.”

“And it never gets old telling it—”

Kevin locked his arm outward. “Shut up!”

Cartman stumbled into the barricade. “Oof—”

Kenny steadied him with his hands. “What is it?”

“Look at the tracks,” Kevin instructed. “Coyote footprints.”

An affirmative howl echoed through the pines.

“I feel like I’m on an episode of Scooby Doo Gone Wild,” Cartman griped.

Kevin unzipped his jacket and pulled out a pistol.

Cartman pressed into Kenny’s chest. “Holy _shit._ You’re fucking armed?!”

“Always am.” Kevin held his palm out. “Stay here.”

Kenny touched Cartman’s elbow. “He knows what he’s doing, chill.”

“Excuse _me_ for being apprehensive at the idea of getting _mauled_ —”

“Just watch.”

Kevin started forward in a half-crouch. Two glowing eyes besieged him from the treeline.

“So this is why you don’t let Karen come,” Cartman muttered. “I’m thinking I should’ve stayed with her.”

Kevin tiptoed between rails, gravel rustling underfoot. The coyote launched out of the brush, ears pinned back, teeth bared—Kevin pulled the trigger, his shoulders jostling with recoil.

Cartman staggered at the reverberating gun shot, clutched Kenny’s hand to right himself. “Fucking hell!”

“It’s okay!” Kenny slipped his arms around his waist. “It’s alright, see? It’s dead.”

Kevin stowed the gun away. “Yeah, that was a pretty clean shot.”

“We do this all the time,” Kenny assured.

Cartman wrestled out of his hold. “You’re both nuts! I’m gonna call Marsh and sick PETA on your asses!”

“It’s legal,” Kevin said. “The mayor’ll probably come down and give us a key to the city. This guy strayed too far—it’s his own damn fault. Imagine if he snuck into town? I just took out a threat to the general goddamn public.”

“Kevin’s right.” Kenny grappled for Cartman again. “Dude, I’m serious. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I wouldn’t’ve brought you out here if I thought you’d get eaten alive.”

“Well—” Cartman melted into his side with a loud sigh. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack, one of these days.”

Kenny’s responding smile rivaled the coyote’s.

“You faggots wanna come get a look?” Kevin asked.

A blush exploded across Cartman’s face. He pushed Kenny away and lumbered over the tracks. “Uh—hell yeah, motherfucker!”

Kenny rolled his eyes before following, and the three of them stood in a half-circle around the dead animal.

Kevin toed it with his boot; its frontal lobe gushed out of the bullet hole in its forehead. “Can’t make him into a hat, I guess.”

Cartman clutched his stomach. “I’m gonna throw up.”

“Quit being a baby,” Kenny reprimanded.

“No, seriously—” Cartman tripped towards the nearest tree and slumped to his knees.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Kevin’s lip curled with distaste. “Kenny, go help your boyfriend.”

Kenny startled. “Uh, he’s not—we’re not—”

Cartman’s retching interrupted his flustered excuse. “ _Kenny_!”

Kevin raised his eyebrows. “You were saying?”

Kenny walked over, dropped into a squat. “Hey, man.” He placed a hand on Cartman’s trembling back. “Just—uh, let it out. There you go.”

Cartman stiffened under his palm and unloaded another hurl of vomit. “I fucking hate you,” he gasped. “I hate you so goddamn butt _-_ fucking much.”

“I’m sorry. I really am. I thought—I mean, I didn’t think there’d be a coyote.” Kenny pulled Cartman’s hood down and pet his hair back from his damp temples. “Why’d it freak you out?”

“Oh, I _don’t know_ ,” Cartman snapped, puke dribbling at the corners of his mouth. “Can’t say I’m as accustomed to guts and gore as you are!”

Kenny’s nose scrunched. He folded his sleeve over his thumb and wiped Cartman’s chin. “Let’s go back to the house. It’s getting dark, anyway.”

“Okay. Lemme just—get my bearings—” Cartman dropped his head into Kenny’s lap. “Eurgh.”

The ground crunched. Kenny looked up to see Kevin staring down at them, his inscrutable expression illuminated by the cherry of another cigarette. “Poor thing,” he muttered.

“He’ll make it,” Kenny said. “I think.”

He half-carried Cartman all the way back home, depositing him into a lawn chair once they arrived to the backyard.

Kevin brought another couple chairs, then ruffled Kenny’s hair. “Dad should be back. I’m gonna grab us some beers—Cartman sure as hell needs one.”

“Uh, hey—”

“Yeah?”

Kenny swallowed. “Thanks. For, you know.”

Kevin paused. “No, I don’t.”

“Shooting that coyote. And—not being an asshole, about, um—” Kenny glanced down at Cartman’s half-conscious face.

Kevin’s expression smoothed. “Oh. Well. I don’t care what the hell you do.” He nodded at Cartman. “He’s a good guy.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah,” Kevin agreed. “Seems good for you, though.” He lifted his hand in a lazy salute, then tromped inside.

Kenny stood for a second in the dark, broken out of his thoughts only when Cartman’s chair creaked.

He sat down next to him and held his jaw. “How’re you holding up?”

“I feel like hell,” Cartman scowled. “I can’t believe you put me in such an embarrassing position.”

“Why’re you embarrassed?” Kenny asked. “I’ve seen worse from you before—Hold on… I knew it!”

Cartman averted his half-lidded gaze. “Kenny, shut the fuck up.”

“You have a crush on my brother!”

“I do not!” Cartman batted Kenny’s hand away and sat up against the back of his chair. “I’d rather lay my dick on an anvil than even _consider_ bedding your ingrate brother!”

Kenny’s heart thudded. “Then—what?”

“Forget about it. Why don’tcha go screw that mannequin of yours? I hope you don’t sand down her vagina properly, and cut your ball sack open.”

Like with most anything involving Cartman, Kenny rescinded. “Your jacket’s all covered in puke,” he said, to change the subject. “Do you want a new one?”

Cartman’s blush deepened. “Nothing else’ll fit me.”

“My dad’s got a cousin who’s around a hundred pounds bigger than you. I think he left a sweatshirt, somewhere.”

“Fine. Just hurry back. I don’t want anymore coyotes coming around without a human shield.”

Kenny departed in a flash, shaken up by Cartman’s sickly anxiety.

Karen jumped out at him when he closed the back door. “Hey!”

“ _Holy—_ ” He tripped over his feet and crashed into a pile of shoes. “What the hell, Karen!”

She braced her hands on the wall above his head, her long brown hair blocking him in. “What’s wrong with Cartman?”

“Nothing! Get offa me!”

“No.” She sat down on his legs and crossed her arms. “I wanna know.”

He dug his fingers into his eye sockets. “Since when were you such a nosy fucking bitch?”

“Since you stopped telling me anything!”

She knew just how to make Kenny feel bad. He kind of regretted babying her so much, when they were little—but only kind of.

“There was a coyote,” he said, scraping his hands into his hairline. “Kevin shot it, and Cartman freaked out and got sick.”

“Why?”

“He’s kind of fragile, sometimes.”

Karen snorted. “Okay.”

“For real, though. He’s like—sensitive, in a weird way.”

“Kevin told me he’s a gay pussy.”

“Kevin’s a jerk.”

Karen wiggled into a haughty poise. “I saw you two cuddling in the yard just now.”

“Agh—” Kenny shoved her off his lap and stood up. “We weren’t cuddling.”

“You totally were.” She hounded him all the way down the hall. “What’re you looking for?”

He threw the hallway cabinet open, which proffered nothing but dusty boxes and old Christmas decorations. “Something for Cartman to change into.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Aww!”

“He puked all over himself! What was I supposed to do—make him _sit_ in it?” He slammed the cabinet shut and stormed into his parents’ room. “D’you know where Cousin Bob’s sweatshirt is? He left one last Thanksgiving. When him and Dad got drunk and started flexing on each other.”

Karen sat down on on the bed, cross-legged. “I think it’s in the closet.”

Kenny pushed the sliding door aside and got on his knees. “Listen,” he said, rifling through the horrid remnants of stockpiled 90s apparel, “don’t fuck with Cartman about any of this, okay? You’ll scare him off.”

The mattress sprung—Karen yanked his hair, started criss-crossing it into a halfhearted braid. “Do you wanna date him?”

“No! I mean, Cartman doesn’t date. He’d probably just make me sign some financial document and open a joint bank account, or something—Aha!”

Kenny finally located Cousin Bob’s XXXL sweatshirt: emblazoned with the greatest NASCAR driver of all time, Richard Petty, and his signature car, in obnoxious red and blue on white fabric; a checkboard motif raced down one sleeve, the STP logo down the other.

“Cartman’s gonna hate this,” Kenny grinned.

Karen plucked a hair-tie off her wrist and secured his braid. It fell loose in between his shoulder blades, half of it unfurling over his ears. “Probably,” she seconded.

Heavy footsteps plodded down the hall. Their father entered the room, handlebar mustache curled downward. “What’s all this ruckus for? ‘N why’re you going through my shit, boy?”

Kenny stood. “Cartman needs to borrow a shirt.”

“He yacked all over the place,” Karen said.

Stuart lifted his ballcap and scratched his mullet. “In the _house_?”

“No,” Kenny said. “Outside.”

“There was a dead coyote,” Karen extrapolated.

Kenny slapped her shoulder. “Shut up!”

“Both of you—knock it off!” Stuart re-situated his hat, hands settling over his belt buckle. “Well, alright. Just make sure he don’t yack again. Cousin Bob’ll kill us all if you ruin that sweater. He’s expecting it back.”

“Yes, sir,” Kenny said.

He and Karen made their way out of the room. Stuart let Karen slip under his arm, then pulled Kenny to a stop by the shoulder; Karen turned around at his absence.

“Get,” Stuart commanded. “This is between me and your brother.”

She made an annoyed face, but obeyed.

Kenny wrung the sweater between his hands. “I promise nothing’ll happen to Cousin Bob’s—”

“I’m not concerned about a goddamn t-shirt,” Stuart interjected. “The hell were you thinking, taking him down the tracks? That’s where you were, right?”

“Uh—”

“Answer me.”

“Yeah,” Kenny confessed. “We were going to the dump.”

“It’s one thing for you and Kevin to screw around—I taught you boys how to handle yourself. But y’don’t take people into situations they can’t handle. What if your sister gets some bright idea and tries sneaking off next?”

“I know, okay?!” Kenny cut off, nostrils flaring. “I’m sorry. I feel bad. Cartman already thinks we’re a bunch of hicks.”

Stuart knocked his jaw. “Don’t be ashamed. Just be smart about it. He’s still here, ain’t he?”

“Only ‘cause he doesn’t wanna go home.”

Stuart shut the door. “Is he in some kinda trouble?”

Kenny blinked. “Um. I don’t know? He said his mom hooked up with some old boyfriend—Ted, was his name.”

“Shit on a cracker,” Stuart muttered.

“What?” Kenny couldn’t control the spike of panic that entered his voice. “Who the hell is this guy, Dad? He ain’t no Ted fucking _Bundy_ , right?”

“He’s a bastard, is what he is.” Stuart chewed on his lip. “But it ain’t my place to say.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?! You can’t just _say_ something like that!”

“I don’t wanna go speculating on something I’m not a part of,” Stuart said. “Maybe everything’s fine—maybe not. Cartman’ll have to tell you that.”

“You’re freaking me out,” Kenny moaned. “Aw, man. He’s been weird all week—”

Stuart’s voice sliced through his meltdown. “Kenny!”

Kenny stilled, shoulders hunched to his ears. “What?”

“Listen—I know Cartman don’t come ‘round much anymore, but I still know you care about him. You _talk_ about him damn near every day—”

“Not _every_ day,” Kenny mumbled.

“Zip it,” Stuart shushed. “If he’s smart as Kevin just told me he is, he’ll realize he can tell you anything. I don’t _know_ if something fishy happened. But if it did, he’ll let you know. Just don’t force it outta him.”

“Okay,” Kenny sighed, then did a belated double-take. “Wait— _Kevin_ told you he’s smart?”

“He said they had a _riveting_ political discussion, whatever the hell that means.” Stuart’s hand slid around Kenny’s back; he opened the door and pushed Kenny into the hall. “Go on, now. I got one of them ducks cut up—your ma’s cooking it. It’ll be finished here, pretty soon.”

Kenny careened through his house, befuddled at his family’s joint approval of Cartman. This day kept getting weirder and weirder, he thought—evidenced when he opened the back door and found Kevin and Cartman huddled together behind the now-crackling bonfire.

Kevin spotted him frozen on the steps and reeled back. “Is that Cousin Bob’s?”

Kenny walked towards them slowly, feeling like any second someobdy’d pop out and arm wrestle him into another deconstruction of his feelings; he wouldn’t let Kevin distract him, either. “The hell are you two talking about?”

“It’s none of your concern,” Cartman said. He stole the sweater and held it up to the firelight. “Aw, Christ. What the hell is this?”

“That’s the best race car driver known to man, numb nuts,” Kevin snapped. “Show some fucking respect.”

“I never know what’ll set you people off.” Cartman divested his nasty jacket and threw it at Kenny’s stomach. “Get rid of that thing.”

Kenny tossed it into the fire. “There. I got rid of it.”

He looked back to find Cousin Bob’s sweater bunched underneath Cartman’s armpits, his black t-shirt peeking out the loose collar. Kevin retrieved a can of PBR from the case at his feet, handed it to Cartman—and the transformation was complete. He looked like a verifiable McCormick convert.

“What’s with your hair?” he asked.

“Huh? Oh—” Kenny fingered the end of his braid. “Karen’s work.” He’d honestly forgotten about it; he was her own makeover Barbie, most the time.

“Looks—nice,” Cartman said. He took a pull of PBR, swallowed like he’d ingested bleach. “This shit’s fucking disgusting.”

Kevin raised another can. “Sit down, Kenny.”

He chose the seat next his brother over Cartman’s side. Cartman peered at him around Kevin’s back. Kenny ignored him, cracked the PBR open and gulped nearly half of it in one go.

“Holy hell,” Kevin laughed. “Y’alright there, bro?”

Kenny canted his head up to the sky. “Can’t everybody just shut up for five seconds?”

“Damn—what crawled up your ass and died?”

_Eric Cartman_ , Kenny wanted to scream.

He shut his eyes and focused on the heat licking his face. Kevin and Cartman launched into another political bullshit conversation. He zoned them out the best he could, taking blind sips of beer. By the time he crinkled the can and opened his eyes, Kevin was gone and Cartman had taken his seat.

Kenny jolted back. “Shit, dude! _Warn_ a guy, if you’re gonna stare at him!”

“I’m not staring,” Cartman said.

“The hell you aren’t.” Kenny lobbed his can into the fire. It pinged against the cinderblocks, then landed on top of Cartman’s charred hoodie.

“Why’re you pissed? What’d I do?”

“Nothing. Fucking lay off me, man.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Cartman clunked his heels onto the cinderblocks and sulked.

Kenny couldn’t take it, anymore. He sat up and rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m not gonna ask again—why are you here? Really?”

Cartman opened his mouth, closed it. He turned his PBR upside down and let it drain, creating a puddle of alcoholic mud, then threw it into the fire where it joined Kenny’s. “Can we go somewhere—private?”

“Uh—” Kenny’s brain shortcircuited, not having expected an actual response.

Cartman pulled his cognitive slack. “Like, your studio?”

“Sure. Yeah—totally—”

A duck call interrupted him. “Soup’s on,” Kevin announced; the rest of the tribe filed out the back door behind him, toting cooked duck.

Kenny passed his hand over Cartman’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later, okay? Please?”

Cartman flicked a strand of Kenny’s hair. “Yeah,” he said.

Karen broke off and raced towards Cartman. “Here.” She held out a paper plate, accompanied by a plastic fork.

Cartman raised from his slouch, accepting the gift. “Thanks.”

“Did you see the coyote’s brains?”

Cartman’s face paled. Kenny scowled and kicked his sister’s leg. “Not cool, Karen!”

Karen clutched her knee and kicked him back. “I was only _wondering_ , dirtbag!”

Carol glared across the fire. “Don’t be antagonizing our guests, little lady.”

“It’s fine,” Cartman said. He stabbed a piece of duck and waved it Karen. “Listen to your brothers, okay? Never _ever_ go out there. It’s a no man’s land.”

She glanced at Kenny, then sidled between their chairs and leaned towards Cartman, conspiratorially. “They never let me do anything with ‘em. And I _know_ how to shoot a gun! I’m not some little kid anymore. I don’t care how gross it is.”

Kenny propped his chair on one leg, to catch a glance of Cartman’s indignant expression. “It’s not just _gross—_ it’s _death,_ ” Cartman emphasized. “You ever seen something die, Karen?”

She shrugged. “I mean— _no_.”

“You don’t want to. I saw the life drain out that thing’s eyes. I saw its brains, too—on Kevin’s _boots_. It’s fucked up, girl. Look at me. Do I look like a little kid?”

“No.”

“Right. I’m a legal goddamn adult in the eye of American law. And it still skeeved me out. It’s not about being older, or something stupid like that. It’s about your inner _constitution_. Okay?”

“I’m not a wimp,” she insisted.

“Did I say you were? Obviously you aren’t, or else you wouldn’t survive this crazy family. You just—you just gotta trust me on this. Take Uncle Cartman’s word for it.”

She giggled. “ _Uncle_ Cartman?”

Kenny’s heart turned into lava at Cartman’s grin. “ _Look_ at me, Karen! Look at what I’ve been reduced to! I might as well be part of the family. And I’ll need your help with all these sickos. You’re the only other person who’s got their wits about you. I don’t want you to lose that.”

“Okay,” she said. She twiddled her fingers behind her back, then snapped him into a hug. “You’re kinda cool. I’m glad you came over today.”

“Uh, thanks. I’m kinda glad I came, too.”

She danced off and dropped into the chair between her parents, who stared at Cartman in slack-jawed amazement.

Cartman shuffled closer to Kenny. “Your mom and dad are freaking me out,” he muttered.

Kenny was amazed, too. He cupped Cartman’s knee—he didn’t care who saw. “Nobody’s ever winded her down like that.”

“Probably because she’s a million levels above all of you.”

“You’re right.”

“I _know_.” Cartman smirked at him. “I’m always right, idiot.”

Kevin rounded their chairs. “Here, Kenny.”

Kenny took the offered plate. Kevin sat down on the cinderblocks, embers skirting his back. “Eat. It’s my bird. I wanna know if it’s good or not.”

“I’ve already had it,” Kenny said. “Let’s see what Cartman thinks.”

“Oh, you want my expert culinary opinion?” Cartman shoved his fork into his mouth, chewed—and groaned.

Kenny snickered at his orgasmic face. “It’s pretty good, right?”

“Better than chicken. But it tastes like a fucking roast!”

“Dark poultry,” Kevin said. He got up and slapped Cartman’s chest. “Enjoy your dinner date.”

“Are you gonna finish that?” Cartman asked once he cleared his own plate.

Kenny’s was still half full, his appetite tampered by nervous butterflies. “Go for it.”

“Sweet.”

Cartman slid his arm over Kenny’s chair and ate out of his lap. Kenny sent a cautious glance at his family, but they were speaking amongst themselves, so he relaxed and listened to the fire, thanking God for all His grace every time Cartman’s elbow grazed his crotch.

Everybody threw their plates in, save for Cartman and Kenny. “We’re going in,” Stuart announced as they all stood up. “Ballad of Ricky Bobby’s on TV tonight.”

Kenny’d have to pass on the official McCormick favorite. “Okay. We’ll be out here.”

“Put the fire out when you’re done.”

“Fuck, man,” Cartman drawled once they were alone. He stacked their plates together, then frisbee-d them into the flames. “I’m ‘bout to pop a boner, just from how damn tasty that was.”

“Being poor ain’t all too bad, sometimes,” Kenny said.

“I don’t know about _that_.”

“So—”

“You’re dying to interrogate me, huh?”

Kenny cringed at being called out. “I just wanna know what’s up. You’ve been acting different all day. I’m, like. Scared.”

Cartman breezed past his confession, which was terrifying in itself. “Can we still go to your studio? Even that lumpy sofa’s better than this stupid chair for my back.”

“Yeah, man.”

The yard was a lot more dangerous in the dark. Kenny kept his hand around Cartman’s wrist as they walked, guiding him in between safety hazards. He let go after they passed under the tarp, bent down and activated a battery-powered lantern. It flooded the lean-to with clinical light, turned the backlit foliage outside into animated shadows.

Cartman collapsed into the recliner and fumbled for the hand crank.

“It’s broken,” Kenny said.

“Of _course_ it is.”

“Here.” He kicked a paint can at Cartman’s feet, an impromptu ottoman, then grabbed one for himself.

“What’re you doing?” Cartman asked.

Kenny paused, knees half-bent. “Sitting down?”

“You’re gonna break your ass. Come here.”

Kenny squeezed next to him, unsure how to manipulate his lengthy body. Cartman lost patience and wrenched his legs across his lap.

“What’re you doing, dude?” Kenny asked.

Cartman didn’t reply, running his fingers up and down Kenny’s shins.

Kenny settled into his side, dropped his head on his shoulder. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“I’m _working_ towards it.” Cartman fingered the tongue of his sneakers. “Would you take these off? Your ankles are probably blistered as shit.”

“My whole body’s all calloused.” Kenny stripped his feet and curled his heels into the lantern’s light. “See?”

“Huh. That’s wild.”

“I ran around barefoot my entire childhood. You’ve seen the yard—my soles have taken so much damage.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get gangrene.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s an infection. Your skin gets infected and slides right off. The soldiers in Vietnam—they walked through the jungle so much, they never took off their boots, because it’d all come spilling out.”

“That’s nasty, man. Why do you know that?”

“I like history. It’s the only class I’m acing.”

“I dunno if that counts as _history._ That’s more like a not-fun fact.”

“I think it’s loads of fun.”

“So you can think about that, but not a dead coyote?”

“I _read_ about it. I don’t go out and see it for myself. It’s secondary exposure.”

“Uh-huh.”

Silence fell again. The crinkling tarp and chirping insects hurried to fill it.

“Ted molested me when I was a kid,” Cartman said.

All the air left Kenny’s lungs. He couldn’t think until he sucked in a couple deep breaths, his chest so constricted it felt like sucking through a straw.

“It happened more than once,” Cartman added.

Kenny squeezed his eyes shut. “Jesus.” It wasn’t an expletive, but a prayer.

“I never told my mom. They fought over some dumb crap and broke up. I thought that was the last of him—until he came by again about a week ago. I guess they met at some bar. I don’t fucking know.” Cartman’s voice lowered. “I lost it. I left the house and drove around for hours, till I knew he’d be gone.”

“Is that why you weren’t at school on Monday?” Kenny asked.

“Yeah. Except he kept coming back. So I locked myself in my room.”

“But?” There always was one, in instances like this.

“Aw, shit—”

“Oh, man.” Kenny lifted his head. “Eric.”

“I hate this,” Cartman choked. He covered his face with his hands. “I hate how it makes me feel.”

“No, it’s okay—” Kenny wormed every one of his limbs around him, utilized every inch of his body to ensconce him in a crushing embrace. “It’s okay. It’s just me. It’s just me, okay? Please don’t, like—don’t do that.”

Cartman dropped his hands, his face all red and tear-tracked. “You’re fucking—you’re the only person I’d ever tell this to.”

“I know. I know I am. I’m glad you’re telling me. You shoulda told me years ago, when it happened.”

“I was a fucking kid, man. I didn’t even wanna _think_ about it—”

“Okay. You’re right. At least you’re telling me now.”

Kenny nosed Cartman’s cheek. His lips glanced Cartman’s temple; Cartman gripped his back, pulled him even closer, so Kenny did it again—and again, and again, kissing him everywhere besides his mouth.

“I think I love you, dude,” he dropped into the centimeter of air between them. He felt bad immediately after saying it—but he _meant_ it, and he couldn’t take it back.

“ _Kenny_ ,” Cartman whined. “Y’can’t _do_ that to me.”

“I couldn’t help it.” Kenny was kind of crying now, too. “I wanted you to know. Especially—especially now. This doesn’t change anything.”

“I can’t _breathe_!”

Kenny lifted, but didn’t leave. Cartman wiped all his snot and tears onto Cousin Bob’s sweater. Fuck Cousin Bob, and fuck Richard Petty. Fuck the whole dirty fucking world, Kenny thought.

“Ted came into my room last,” Cartman said, staring at the easel with the blood-paint all around it. “I was drunk as hell. I’ve been drinking like crazy. As bad as Stan. So I forgot to lock the door. I was passed out—practically comatose. I woke up and Ted was half on my bed, his hand on my pants.”

Kenny’s chest hitched. His nails dug into Cartman’s scalp. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“I nearly already did,” Cartman said. “I laid him out. I’m two hundred and fifty four pounds. I smeared the guy on my bedroom floor.”

“Good.”

“My mom came in screaming. She knew, all the way back then. She _had_ to of.”

“What’d she do?”

“I dunno. I busted the door down before she could say a single word. I got in my car and I left. I didn’t wanna go anywhere in town, in case she went looking for me. So I went into the mountains and slept in my fucking car. That’s why my back got all fucked—”

He clammed up, his breath unable to match pace with his voice. Kenny pet his hair till he calmed down enough to speak.

“I can’t go back,” he said. “I can’t do it, Kenny.”

“You aren’t going back. You’re gonna stay here,” Kenny vowed. His lips quirked in a pained smile. “You remember Shiloh? That book we read in fifth grade?”

“What—” Cartman blinked, his gaze clearing with something else to focus on. “The one about the _beagle_?”

“Yeah. That kid who took the dog from his bad owner, and kept him out in the woods in a shack. You’ll be like the dog. I’ll keep ya out here. I’ll bring ya duck every day.”

Cartman coughed a wet hiccup. “Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” His hiccup turned into a laugh. Then he started crying again. “I’d be dead, without you. I’d be like that coyote.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Kenny promised. “Can I kiss you?”

“Oh, God. Yes. Kenny—”

Kenny palmed Cartman’s jaw and slotted their lips together. He tasted like puke, and duck, and salty tears. He wasn’t much of a kisser, either—slobbering and dripping snot all over the place, making a mess in general. Kenny didn’t care. He dug his knees into the recliner, straightened his spine, cradled Cartman into a recreation of that Klimt painting with the two people sucking faces draped in gold.

They parted, chests heaving, clutching onto one another. Kenny’s braid fell apart and funneled over his shoulders. Cartman stroke it back, his hand landing at the base of Kenny’s neck.

“I screwed up your hair.”

Kenny pecked his forehead. “It’s okay. Come on. Let’s go inside.”

Everybody was in the living room watching Talladega Nights, so nobody crossed their path. Kenny pulled Cartman into the bathroom first to wash his face, then tucked him into bed.

Cartman’s hand shot out and clasped his wrist when he stood up. “Don’t—”

“I’m gonna get you some water,” Kenny murmured, plucking Cartman’s fingers off his wrist one by one. “I’ll be right back.”

He went into the kitchen, ran the tap. Buried his face with his hands. He thought he heard Karen’s scurrying footsteps behind him, but found his mother after turning around.

“Karen said you were upset. Your dad told me about Cartman.”

“Can he stay here? Please? I don’t want him going back—”

She pulled him into a hug. “Sure he can. Long as he needs to.”

A pair of eyes peeked around the doorway; Karen fearfully stepped into view. “What’s going on? Why’s Kenny crying?”

Carol looked up, scowling. “Go watch TV—”

Kenny wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s okay, Ma. I’m alright.”

She pursed her lips, then patted his cheek and returned to the living room.

Karen walked forward. “Is Cartman okay?”

“No.”

Her face crumpled with concern. “What is it?”

“You don’t need to know. I don’t want you to ever know. But he’s gonna stay with us for a bit. I don’t know how long.”

“Good. I like him. So does Kevin. You do too, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I like him a lot.”

“I always knew you did.”

“That’s because you’re smart.”

She hugged his waist. He put his hand on top of her head, where it met his sternum. She’d be as tall as him, too soon enough.

“I love you, Kenny.”

“I love you too, Karen.” He pulled her arms off him. “I gotta go back. Could you braid my hair again, before I do?” He winked. “Cartman likes it.”

He padded into his bedroom a few minutes later, with the glass of water and the prettiest braid Karen had ever made.

Cartman rustled around to face him. “Finally. I thought I scared you off, for a second.”

“You can’t scare me.” Kenny’s knee sunk into the mattress. He set the water aside and took off his hoodie, measuring his own primary exposure against Cartman’s. “Scooch over, fatass.”

Cartman put his head on his chest once he laid down. “Your hair’s all nice again.”

“Karen did it.”

“I like it.”

“I know.”

“Kenny.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I love you too.”

Kenny smiled into the dark.

/

Kevin’s pickup lurched to a stop at the curb. “You’re _sure_ this is the guy?”

“Positive,” Kenny said.

“Alright, then.”

They reached into the back and retrieved two hunting rifles. Kevin slung the strap over his shoulder after stepping out into the street, tossed his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with his boot. Kenny did the same.

“Let’s do this,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> you know how some television networks only allow one "fuck" per season? i'm like that with cartman's first name, per fic. it's gotta pack a punch.
> 
> trigger warning: semi-explicit discussion of past molestation and present attempted molestation 
> 
> [Cousin Bob's sweater](https://di2ponv0v5otw.cloudfront.net/posts/2019/07/31/5d4250b6689ebca08d6ea595/m_5d4250eb10f00fc37b47cada.jpg)
> 
> [the Marilyn Manson song kenny rocked to, it's so fucking good](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTviW6w_-wI)


End file.
